Ava smiled to herself. Maybe not a PhD in physics, but certainly full of surprises.
He eyed the flight case. “Thieves is it?” He looked unamused. “Well, I’ve dealt with a lot worse.” He paused, looking around. “What’s in the case then?” He kept his gun trained on the group as he approached it.
“Be my guest.” Malchus smiled. “A man of your learning might find it interesting.”
The priest moved over to the flight case, keeping his shotgun on the group all the while. As he got closer, she could see it was an antique, but she was under no illusions that it probably had just as much stopping power as anything Malchus’s men were carrying.
The old priest flipped the flight case’s catches, and pushed the lid back, a look of incomprehension crossing his face as he saw the large grimy candlestick inside.
“Now where did you get that, I wonder” he began. But before he had got any further Malchus lunged towards him.
The priest swivelled the shotgun, pointing it directly at Malchus.
But he was not quick enough.
Malchus emptied two rounds into the old man’s chest and one into his skull, before pushing his white-haired head backward over the low rail guarding the hole down into the mithraeum. Malchus kept pushing, and suddenly it was over. The priest toppled backwards over the railings—the weight of his head and gravity carrying him sailing down into the mithraeum below.
With a sickening crunch, Ava heard his head hit the temple’s flagstones.
As the priest fell, Ferguson seized the opportunity to make a dive for a weapon. He launched himself at the stocky gunman nearest him, bringing a shoulder and bent upper arm hard into the man’s face, splintering his nose into a bloody mess as he made a grab for the machine pistol he was loosely carrying.
But the bulky man was strong. Too strong. He kept hold of the gun, and Ferguson was left trying to wrench it from his grip.
“Enough!” Malchus commanded, as his man was poised to smash a fist into Ferguson’s face. “We don’t have time. Get the ropes.” He pointed to the coils in the bottom of the Menorah’s flight case. “Tie them.”
The men retrieved the ropes and directed Ferguson, Max, and the others to move over to a dim arcade of columns, where they began tying them to the vast uprights.
Ava was left standing by the flight case.
She watched with contempt as Malchus approached her. “Are you going to cooperate for once? Or am I going to have to hurt you?”
Ava gave him a defiant stare, unable to conceal her loathing. “Tricky choice. I’ll give you three guesses.”
His nostrils flared momentarily with anger, before he pushed her roughly to the floor, forcing her arms back around the column behind her. Tying them tight so she was firmly lashed to the pier, he returned to face her, his nose only an inch from hers, his gun rammed into her temple.
She gazed at his revoltingly hairless head, into his lizard-like green eyes, her heart hammering. “That’s it?” she spat. “A simple execution? No speech? No self-congratulation?”
Malchus did not flinch. When he spoke, his voice was honey soft. “Dr Curzon, your eventual death at my hands will be a thing of beauty, not a squalid shooting.” He paused, allowing his eyes to run lustfully over her face and down to her chest, “I’m going to keep a close eye on you, and I look forward to a more thorough collaboration. Another time.”
He was so close she could feel his hot breath on her lips. “So please, always remember that wherever you are—I’ll never be far away.”
She turned her head away in disgust, wanting nothing more than to wipe the loathsome expression off his face. She pulled hard at her arms, but the ropes had been bound tight, restricting all movement.
With that, Malchus and his men were gone.
And so was the Menorah.
Ava sat for a moment, breathing heavily—too overwhelmed by everything that had just happened to speak.
Three people were dead, and she could only imagine how many ancient bricks, tiles, frescos, and other irreplaceable artworks now had ammunition rounds lodged deep in them.
She thought of the sign she had seen in the courtyard on entering the basilica. It had been put up by an eighteenth-century pope, Clement XI, and read simply:
THIS ANCIENT CHURCH HAS WITHSTOOD THE RAVAGES OF THE CENTURIES
She prayed it could take today’s anarchy in its stride, too.
——————— ◆ ———————
76
Basilica di San Clemente
Via Labicana
Rione Monti
Rome
The Republic of Italy
Ava concentrated on slipping her hands out of the tight knots binding her to the vast stone column. At the same time, she tried to erase from her mind the grotesque image of Malchus leering over her.
Her arms were aching from their unnatural position, and every movement sent bolts of pain shooting through her stretched shoulders.
Looking around the dimly lit crypt, she could see that the second Malchus had left the ancient chamber and headed up the stairs to the grand basilica above, Ferguson and the gasmen had also begun trying to tear themselves free of the great piers.
She knew she had to get loose quickly. If Malchus was still close by, then there remained a chance the Menorah was not completely lost.
All she had to do was get free of the constricting ropes.
Gritting her teeth, she scrunched up her hands to make them narrow enough to slip through the knots. Pulling hard, she felt the bones and cartilage crunching together as she struggled to drag her hands free.
She closed her eyes, and focused on finding a quiet spot within herself where she could blank out the searing pain. She disconnected herself from the present, and shut out the feedback coming from her senses. So she was not at first quite sure whether the noise she heard was real or imaginary.
“Quiet!” ordered Ferguson, confirming it was real, cocking his head as the room fell silent.
Ava stopped pulling at her hands, and dragged herself back to reality, listening intently.
It was definitely there.
She could make it out more clearly now.
It was footsteps coming down the stairs.
A fresh burst of adrenaline coursed through her system.
There were limited possibilities who it could be. And few of them were welcome.
If it was Malchus returning to finish them off, there was little she or any of them could do. They were all immobilized, tightly lashed to the enormous columns—sitting ducks for any executioner.
On the other hand, if it was the police, alerted by the gas vans or the noise of the shooting, then they could expect an uncomfortable reception.
The Polizia would certainly want to know about the pockmarks and chunks of masonry taken out of the ancient walls, and the dozens of empty cartridge cases littering the floor—not to mention the three dead bodies down below.
It would all lead to many hours of dogged and unpleasant questioning at the gloomy Questura Centrale downtown—and all their different and hurriedly invented accounts would not hang together for a moment. They had not had time to prepare a common story, and the likelihood of them all spontaneously offering the same explanations was zero.
All in all, if it was the police, things would get serious very quickly, and Ava had no desire to languish in the Italian criminal justice system. It would almost certainly take an intervention from Prince and DeVere to resolve it, and that would raise a whole new line of unwelcome complications. She and Ferguson had not exactly kept Legoland in the loop about their trip to Rome, and she had no desire to sit through another self-righteous lecture from Prince.
As her eyes travelled down the gloomy nave, she barely noticed the world heritage frescoes this time. Her sole focus now was the hope that the visitor was not Malchus or the police.
Through the half-light, she saw a figure emerge into the low-ceilinged basilica.
He was moving quickly towards
them, his head swivelling from side to side as he took in the chaotic scene.
Her heart in her mouth, it took her a few seconds to recognize the tall lanky frame and smooth head of full silver hair as the man moved out of the shadows into the light.
Saxby.
She breathed an audible sigh of relief, feeling the tension dissipate.
Thank God.
“There’s a knife in the toolbox,” she called over to him urgently, nodding towards the slim flight case. “Hurry!”
Saxby reached the flight case and glanced down through the hole in the floor to the mithraeum below, where the priest had fallen head first.
“Christ.” He turned pale at the spectacle below, before quickly grabbing the knife and hurrying over towards Ava.
He had her free in no time, then turned to slice open Max’s bonds.
“What in God’s name happened here?” He was looking around in bewilderment, shell-shocked. He passed the knife to Max, who quickly set about freeing the others.
“Come on!” Ava jumped to her feet, rubbing her numbed wrists to get the blood circulating again. “We need to find him. He can’t have got far.”
“We’re already on it.” Saxby was close behind her. “The vans are following him.”
In an instant, the despair and anger that had been building lifted a fraction. She felt a sudden surge of hope.
Of course!
She had forgotten about the vans—they had been waiting outside with their engines running.
She bolted for the stairs, desperate to be out of the church and in a car.
To be moving.
She had to be there when they caught up with Malchus.
She had unfinished business with him.
Sprinting up the stairs, she halted dead in her tracks on the top step, grunting with unexpected pain as she squeezed her eyes closed against the blinding brightness.
Her pupils were still dilated from the long period in the subterranean gloom, and entirely unprepared for the Roman morning sunlight bouncing off the millions of tiny golden and glass mosaic tiles studding the apse and coffered ceiling.
She opened her eyelids again more slowly, allowing her irises time to adjust.
Moving surprisingly fast for a man of his age, Saxby arrived at the top of the stairs beside her.
“Does he have it?” he was slightly breathless, uncertainty etched into his face. “Did you find it? Was it here?”
Ava opened her eyes in a narrow squint and looked at him bleakly. She could not bring herself to say the words in case they unleashed the volatile cocktail of disappointment, frustration, and anger she was feeling.
Ferguson arrived at the top of the stairs behind them, closely followed by Max. “If the vans are on him,” he looked purposeful, “we still have a chance.”
Heading for the basilica’s central door, Max leant in towards Saxby and spoke quietly and hurriedly to him. Straining to listen, Ava heard him report that one of his men was dead. Saxby replied that he would make the necessary arrangements with the commandery at Aubagne.
Ferguson moved closer to Ava. “That’s one mystery solved then. There’s only one outfit I know headquartered at Aubagne.” He had clearly also been eavesdropping.
He turned to Max. “You’re Légionnaires?”
The short Frenchman hunched his shoulders and turned down the corners of his mouth in a classic Gallic shrug. “Depends who’s asking.”
It was not a resounding confirmation, but it was enough. “I did a job with your thirteenth in Djibouti a few years ago.” Ferguson placed a hand on Max’s shoulder for a second. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Merci.” Max’s lined face was set like granite. “He and I served together side-by-side for seven years. And today I watch him executed like a dog.” He shook his head, a murderous expression darkening his eyes.
“Come on.” Ava was nearing the door, spurred on by a determination that Malchus could not be allowed to add the Menorah to his collection, in which the Ark was already the centrepiece.
As she hit the door and burst out into the bright sunlit courtyard, she heard Saxby barking rapid orders into his phone for all airports to be watched, and for a clean-up team to come in and remove the bloodied bodies from the basilica’s lowest level. He confirmed he would take care of the Italian police, then he hung up.
Ava froze in her tracks, not believing what she was hearing.
Who gave orders like that?
Did he really have the Italian police and border control in his pocket? Could he actually make corpses quietly disappear from a public place in a major European capital city?
Who on earth was he?
The questions that had been welling up for days now exploded in her head.
At first, she had been content to accept Saxby’s assurances that the Foundation was a private institute interested in ancient artefacts. It had suited her to give him the benefit of the doubt.
But recent events had changed all that decisively.
It was absolutely clear that Saxby had not been straight with her at all.
Since meeting him, her life had become distinctly more dangerous. But that was not what was bothering her most. She had never had, or wanted, a quiet existence.
What was profoundly troubling her was the realization that she truly had no idea who Saxby was, what the Foundation did, or what she was getting herself mixed up in. She was offering her services to an organization she knew absolutely nothing about.
As the conflicting thoughts tumbled through her head, she spun around to face the old man, her eyes blazing. “Who on earth are you, Saxby? Now would be a good time for answers.” She glared at him. “You owe me an explanation.”
Saxby’s eyes narrowed as he strode between the arches of the portico and across the cobbled courtyard.
Nearing the archway separating the tranquil quadrangle from the noisy street, he looked back over his shoulder, his expression set grimly. “Have it your way then, Dr Curzon. If you’re truly ready for the answer, then come with me.”
——————— ◆ ———————
77
Rome
The Republic of Italy
Saxby pointed towards an unmarked sleek black coach up ahead—its interior obscured behind a row of dark tinted windows.
It was parked immediately opposite the main entranceway to the Basilica di San Clemente, and Ava had spotted it as soon as she emerged through the ancient church’s stone archway.
Oddly for such a large vehicle, its clean modern lines and shiny metalwork blended unobtrusively into the mix of ancient and hi-tech modern that was everywhere in Rome.
Saxby approached its single slim door, which hissed and popped open revealing a low-lit interior.
Perplexed, Ava followed his invitation to climb inside. Ferguson, Max, and the others were right behind her. Saxby entered last.
She had already come to the conclusion that nothing Saxby said or did could surprise her any more.
But what was inside the coach did.
The driver’s compartment was fully sealed off, leaving the rest of the cabin a long open-plan space, divided into two.
The walls and ceiling were covered in a plush dark fabric and the muted light filtering through the tinted windows was augmented by a suffused glow coming from artfully recessed lighting.
Immediately in front of her was a large seating area with four coffee-brown armchairs facing each other in front of a matching sofa. In the corners between the seats were low wooden tables supporting old-fashioned lamps. And in the centre was an ornate butler’s table, its highly polished brass hinges lending an air of elegance.
It was a timeless arrangement that would have been equally at home in a White House reception room or the apartments of a university dean.
Behind the sofa was a partition of lightly tinted glass, broken only against the right wall by a narrow door opening into an office built around an antique L-shaped desk. The main section of polished mahogany
was bare save for a large elaborate telephone console, while the side sprig against the wall supported an assembly of six sleek black flat-panel monitors.
Ava instantly recognized the man who rose from behind the desk to greet her.
Despite the different setting, he was unchanged from when she had seen him at the Royal Society the previous day—the same dark eyes, patrician air, neatly clipped dark goatee, and effortless charm.
But in contrast to his geniality on that occasion, De Molay’s expression now was grave.
“Dr Curzon,” he began, as the coach pulled away from the curb and swung out into the traffic, “I wish these were better circumstances.”
Ava was in no mood for small talk. She had a thousand burning questions.
She looked searchingly at him and then at Saxby. “I’d already come to the conclusion you didn’t represent an obscure private Foundation with a side interest in antiquities before I saw … ,” she gestured around at the coach, “this.”
“You’d better take a seat,” De Molay advanced through into the front area, and waited until Ava had sat down, before himself sinking into one of the armchairs.
He gestured for Ferguson and Saxby to sit with them, before turning to Max. “Keep an eye on the monitors,” he instructed. “The vans are in pursuit.”
The Frenchman nodded, disappearing quickly into the back office, followed by his men.
Ava peered through the glass into the rear section, and focused more closely on the screens, which were displaying a dynamic map of Rome with three green dots moving swiftly along its narrow roadways—the first slightly ahead of the others.
“Smart.” Ferguson complimented Saxby, who was also craning to look through the partition at the flat-screens. “You fitted a transmitter into the case.”
Saxby nodded. “Experience suggests it pays not to leave these things to chance.”
“So, Dr Curzon,” De Molay began. “You’re correct in guessing the Foundation is not what it seems. Therefore it’s only fair we reveal to you a little more about who we are—or else Edmund tells me we may lose you as an ally.”
The Sword of Moses Page 48
